


doesn't need to rhyme (we've got time)

by GreyishBlue



Series: write me something better [2]
Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It, Hawkward, Just two dudes flirting, M/M, Only One Bed, Pancakes, Tales of Suspense - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24812689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyishBlue/pseuds/GreyishBlue
Summary: Clint and Bucky are really good at their jobs, and slightly not as good at being humans with each other once the work is done. It goes pretty okay, though.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: write me something better [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794742
Comments: 26
Kudos: 74
Collections: Clint Barton Bingo





	doesn't need to rhyme (we've got time)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magenta_llama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magenta_llama/gifts).



> Written for Clint Barton Bingo Birthday Bash - Square C2, Coffee
> 
> And also because Mags drew me a picture from part one and I didn't know how to thank them other than writing more??

Clint wakes up, ears aching from his aids, and with his face tucked into warmth. He presses himself into it, a slow inhale gives him the artificial orange of generic motel soap barely masking gunpowder. He tenses a moment later when he realizes he’s wrapped close around Bucky, hand splayed possessively across his stomach. Bucky is holding very still, tense enough that Clint knows he’s definitely awake.   
  
He should be pulling back, but moving seems like it might startle the silent calm before he’s efficiently murdered by an armful of pissed super soldier. He takes another careful - definitely not shaky - breath and mutters an apology as he unwraps himself, freeing Bucky’s legs to probably do that murder thigh thing Nat’s always using. He’s trying to edge back and not think about the planes of Bucky’s abs under his fingers. Getting out of Bucky’s effective range is unlikely no matter how fast he is, especially not with the bruises littered across his body. 

Bucky finally moves, a stutter of sound in his deep growl that does more to Clint than he’s really ready to think about. He coughs, shakes himself once, shuddering that makes the remaining plates of his arm shift with a strained click-whir. “Ya’ owe me breakfast.”   
  
It’s so unexpected - and so not murder - that Clint snorts out a sharp laugh, “The fuck for, Barnes?”   
  
“Usually I insist on at least a meal before first base,  _ Barton _ .” Bucky is barely turned toward him now, but the light filtering through the threadbare curtains is enough to catch the pink flush along his ears. God, the guy had ridden on the back of a giant talking bear without pause last night - among a dozen other fucked up things - and he hadn't ever looked as close to dread as he does waiting for Clint’s reply. 

So Clint gets up, as graceful as his aching body will allow, and snags Bucky’s shirt. He tosses it behind him and grins at the shocked noise Bucky makes when it hits him right in his surprisingly endearing sleepy face, “Get dressed, we’re finding waffles. N’ hell, call me Clint.”   
  
“Asshole.” It’s muffled behind his shirt, but Clint can see the line of tension dropping from Bucky’s shoulders, so he figures it’s alright and turns away to pick through his own clothes.

He keeps himself politely turned away as he gets dressed, nose wrinkling when he makes the mistake of sniffing his longer sleeved shirt. He might be a mess, but even he isn’t putting dried bad guy brains back on. The local breakfast place is just going to have to deal with his slightly holed tank top. His pants are thankfully dark enough that anything stained on won't show. 

Clint looks over and chokes on air at the sight of Bucky bent over, shuffling through items in a dark beat to shit duffel bag. He’s in those absolutely impractical and glorious leather pants, and he’s swapped the thousand buckles jacket for a soft looking red henley, one sleeve tucked up. Clint is still staring when he gets done stashing the rest of his gear, the metal arm looking dull where it’s tucked carefully among whatever else Bucky had with him.    
  
Bucky makes a little questioning noise as he points at Clint’s bow, where it’s leaning against the bed. Oh god, the bed they’d shared and apparently spooned in. There isn’t going to be enough coffee in the world to convince him he hasn’t been dreaming the last few days. Bucky’s voice is still raspy, maybe that’s just a permanent thing with him, “If that’s one of the foldable ones, I’ve got a pocket here that’ll fit it.”   
  


And damn if the way he offers doesn't sound almost sweet under the usual sharpness. Or maybe Clint’s started reading way too into things. Wishful thinking has gotten him into some shit, historically. Bucky has a point though, even the most jaded waitress is likely to take issue with a recurve across his back. He nods and tips a smirk Bucky’s way, adds a soft thanks after he breaks it down and hands it over. It’s not one of his favorite bows, but he’s still a little confused when he doesn’t feel the pang of discomfort at letting someone else handle it. He’s getting at least a full pot of coffee to himself, Bucky and his pretty eyes be damned.   
  


He busies himself with the inconsiderate amount of lacing he has to do with his boots, definitely not watching Bucky from the corner of his eye. Absolutely not noticing the furrow in his brow as he glares down at the full duffel. Before he can reach for it, Clint saunters over and scoops it up by the handles. He heads toward the door with a glance back at the grumpy look Bucky is now directing his way, “You gonna get this for me? Some kinda 40’s gentleman you are.”   
  
Bucky barks out a rough laugh, “That’s for the classy dames,  _ Clint _ .” But he’s moving through the room to open the door anyway, scanning for threats out of habit before letting Clint step through. The edge of town feels almost deserted, with the motel at the end of a small strip of mostly shuttered businesses. There’s one blue IHOP sign across the road and up a ways, the building nearly identical to every one of the franchises he’s ever been to, just a little run down.

Bucky glares down at his side for a moment, Clint's getting the feeling that it's always some kind of glare with him. He's got them cataloged like a dossier, this particular one looks pretty amused. "Well, I'd offer to escort you, but..." he smirks a little sadly alongside a one shouldered shrug.

Clint blinks at him, too slow to get for a second that Bucky is actually joking around, stilted but genuine. Then he wheezes out a laugh that he can't help, pats awkwardly at the metal shoulder, “I’ll forgive it just this once, Sarge.” The nickname works as intended, Bucky’s got that little shocked face for a second before his blush comes back in full force.

It's a short walk to the restaurant, but surprisingly pleasant without the usual insults between them. The peace can't quite last, they gripe at one another about where to sit and sightlines before settling on a corner booth that's awkwardly shaped to accommodate the nearby kitchen door.    
It leaves them both on the same bench seat, neither willing to have that many windows at their back. Clint sprawls out, knocking into Bucky with his thigh as he props his feet up. It only earns him a soft grumble, Bucky doesn’t even bother moving away. Clint doesn’t have the heart to keep bugging him, leaves him to his ‘trying to make choices’ glare directed at the slightly sticky menu. 

There’s a chipper looking waitress heading their way, name-tag proclaiming “Lana” and smile too wide for this hour of the morning by half. She directs her smile at Clint, “What can I getcha' boys?”

“Coffee, biggest mug you’ve got, and the uhh… birthday confetti bonanza waffles, please.” 

Bucky looks at him like he’s grown a second head, but he’s really lost his being-scary powers somewhere around seeing him with bedhead, so it doesn’t affect Clint. “Yeah, you would, huh?” he grumbles before turning to Lana with the ghost of a charming smile, “Banana caramel pecan pancakes, with extra whipped cream. Oh, n’ coffee for me too, thanks.”

Clint holds out a hand for a high five before his brain can catch up and yell about being way too dorky to impress Bucky. He snorts, but gives Clint the high five anyway, plus a little judgement in his eyebrows. Still, overall a win in Clint’s book. 

The coffee, when it arrives, is utterly unremarkable and the best thing Clint’s tasted all week. He groans his appreciation somewhere in the middle of his first cup, and he doesn’t miss the intense focus on Bucky’s face at the sound. It’s possible Bucky is just really determined to keep up the date joke, but Clint is starting to think maybe he means the flirting, as scattered as it is. 

As weird as their respective lives are, they still manage small talk while waiting on their food. 

Bucky doesn’t share much, but he asks good questions and seems intent on the answers. When Clint shows him a picture of Lucky, Bucky actually smiles - it’s devastatingly handsome. Clint starts to worry when he can’t stop watching the way Bucky’s eyes light up talking about a little white cat he wants to adopt. He’s definitely feeling things that might be kind of inconvenient if they’re not going to at least end up friends after they part ways. 

The waffles are a lot better than he’d actually expected, even if Bucky’s looking really skeptically at his rainbow colored sprinkles. Clint’s about to tell him to take a picture when he asks, “Is it actually your birthday?”   
  
“Oh! Uh, yeah as long as it’s the 18th? Might have been yesterday. I kinda lose track when missions start involving clones,” He laughs at the sour look on Bucky’s face - fair enough, “and that safe room felt like an eternity.”   
  
Bucky rolls his eyes and snorts - yeah every form of smile looks good on him, dammit, “Happy birthday, idiot. Didn’t get ya’ anything, but I saved your ass at least twice, that do?”   
  


Clint makes a big show of thinking it over, mouth stuffed with as much sprinkle covered waffle as he can manage. He spends a moment hmming just to watch the tick of Bucky’s mouth down in annoyance, “How about you come by my place in Bed-Stuy sometime? Meet Lucky, he’ll love the whole grumpy dude with a heart of gold shtick,” he stumbles a few words trying to cover the honesty, “n’get us some pizza. Or somethin’. It’s whatever.”

Bucky perks up, “Yeah, sounds like a plan,” - and wow Clint really gets why they had that mask on him, he’d make the worst undercover agent. He’s interrupted by the shrill beeping of his phone and he sighs after looking down at it, “Alright, my ride is here. You need a drop off anywhere?” 

Clint watches the professional Bucky slide back in place with a little regret, “Nah, I’ve got a bus ticket with my name on it. Kinda wanna exist for a bit before I get back to, well. Avenging.”   
  


“I get it,” with the way the guy avoids Steve, it’s clear he does, “try not to do too much stupid shit, Hawkeye.” He gets up, gathers his gear and returns the bow with the efficiency that’s evident whenever he’s on the job.

“Right back at ya’, Frosty.” Clint throws him some truly obnoxious finger-guns and then allows himself a nice long stare at the way Bucky’s pants cling to his thighs as he leaves the restaurant. 

It takes him a few minutes to realize Bucky left him with the check. Fucker. 


End file.
